


Memory

by EzRoar



Category: RWBY
Genre: Bayonetta!Salem AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24639607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzRoar/pseuds/EzRoar
Relationships: Ozma/Salem (RWBY), Ozpin & Salem (RWBY)
Kudos: 3





	Memory

Ozpin stares in pure incredulity at the display before him. He wasn’t sure of what to make of it. It was certainly something to be sure. 

The woman, a woman that once belonged to Ozma and otherwise until things soured so brutally, literally danced on the battlefield of grimm. Her hips gyrated, her legs shooting out with bullets and her hair literally whipping enemies, left, right and centre. 

There was something anti-climatic in how this woman, this _terror_ that kept him up at night and haunted his mind _,_ behave in a manner so flamboyant ridiculous. And all with a joyous smile on her face as shots rang out from her hands and feet. 

Oscar hadn’t quite believed it when he heard the reports from Leo. Of a woman wandering the tiers of Mistral brandishing the name of Salem and attracting all sorts of trouble. But the detail of the woman surviving a shot to the head point blank caught his attention and, well, Ozpin had been meaning to visit the city for some time. 

The woman–Salem, Ozpin is sure, he knows that magic anywhere–throws her hands up, the weaves of her dark skin-tight unravelling to form a gigantic demonic fist, leaving her exposed for all to see. With a triumphant cry, she took out the final grimm, a gargantuan beringel, with one blow of the fist, the creature dissolving into dust on impact. 

Salem’s bodysuit reforms, the woman flipping her impossibly long hair. She took last look at the battlefield around her, lips curling with satisfaction. No more creatures plagued the little, ramshackle neighbourhood hanging on the fringes of Mistral’s capital on its lowest plate. But the smile drops when she sees the smashed in houses, the debris lying on the ground, the _damage.  
_

The monster Ozma’s love had turned into would never do that. She would see it as a necessary sacrifice, a casualty of war. 

Salem sees him, blue eyes, not red, connecting with his. Ozpin freezes in place, the grip around his cane tightening. She walks to him, hips swaying, one sharp heel in front of the other. It became harder to breathe the closer she neared. Details became more noticeable with her approach. Her hair was flaxen blonde, not white; blue lined her black catsuit, not red; and there was no malice or callous superiority in her gaze, only wary curiosity. 

It wasn’t her.

It wasn’t the witch. 

“My, my,” Salem says loftily, bending over to take a closer look, hands on her hips. “You’re quite the puzzle, aren’t you? Except all your jjig-saw pieces are auras. Curious. I’ve never seen something like this before.”

Air fills Ozpin’s lung in stilted halts. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t go around, solving them.” She didn’t recognise him. _She didn’t recognise him._

“Very well.” Salem stands upright. “You’re looking rather pale there. Would a cup of tea ease your poor nerves?”

“No, no.” Ozpin hates how shaky his words come out. “I’m just–You’ll have to forgive me. I’m at a loss for words here.”

“Don’t worry. It’s common that I render men speechless.”

And Ozpin laughs. It’s a wretched laugh, one filled with hysteria and desperation, that has him bending over, clinging to his cane for support. This woman, this witch, this demon, all of that dread and anxiety and pain and, oh gods, all those lives lost because of _her_ –what for?

For this moment?

For this woman to be talking to him with hair for a weapon and guns attached to every limb all wrapped up in a skintight suit that left nothing to the imagination to ruin all of that? All his plans, all his fear, all his–

“Here, sit down, dear,” Salem says, placing gentle hands on him and easing him down to a piece of debris that functioned as his temporary chair. She kneels, meeting him eye-level. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Sorry, I just …” Ozpin trails off, weaving his hand through his ashen hair. 

“I’ll go fetch you some water. Surely, there should be a convenience store that got ruined in all this mess. Wait here, okay?”

Ozpin watches her leave, though. He could see what Ozma saw long ago. Compassion, a certain _joie de vivre_ and paired with an air of confidence that drew you in like a moth to a flame. 

Ozpin wanders how long it will take until the side that made Ozma curl in fear and terror shows its ugly head. 


End file.
